Croissants on a Sunday morning
by Pinkjimmychoos
Summary: A Bill/Karen oneshot. Pure fluff I'm afraid.


**Croissants on a Sunday**** morning**

**Summary:** Bill/Karen one-shot. Pure fluff I'm afraid (which isn't my usual genre- so sorry!).

**A/N:** I promised Take 5 I'd write a B/K story a while ago (months ago actually), apologies it's taken so long but I've been busy with my other stories! First time trying a B/K one-shot. Hope you like it.

**Rating:** K

**Disclaimer: **Not mine, never will be. Though the bakery _does_ belong to me and I imagine their cakes would be yummy. Infact, now I have a hankering for some chocolate chip cookies.

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Sunday's were _always_ their day to spend together. Ever since he'd resigned CTU and headed east to be with her after the whole Valencia fiasco, no matter how busy their schedules, they always arranged to spend at least part of their weekends together. Sometimes they got lucky and she wangled her diary so they got two full days, which was a luxury; other times she got called in halfway through the weekend to aid with some unexpected political crisis, but despite everything, there was no place he'd rather be. When they spent time together they made it count.

She loved the cosy Sunday mornings best of all, when he let her lie in bed late and he headed out for his usual run, pausing on the way back to grab the newspapers (a serious broadsheet for him and the most sensationalist tabloid he could find for her) and he swung by the bakery at the bottom of the block for breakfast. Karen was _addicted_ to that bakery- she had the sweetest tooth of anyone he'd ever met. He always returned bearing her favourite fluffy croissants, still warm and golden in their paper packaging, their sweet scent flooding their colonial Virginia home and evoking blissful memories for the rest of the day.

During the week she was as busy as ever with her work at The White House, reinstated as an aid to the new president, Allison Taylor, much to the chagrin of an embittered Tom Lennox. Bill, whilst he missed his career as Director of CTU LA, was more than happy with his early retirement now he'd gotten used to it; his days were usually spent pottering around the spacious garden, fishing and always having something terrific on the stove for dinner whenever Karen got home. He had more time to spend cooking nowadays and he found he was pretty good at it. His particular specialities were potato gnocchi and cioppino, and he also made a _mean_ tiramisu. Karen had even bought him an Italian cooking course for his sixtieth birthday, and when she finally retired, they swore they'd fly to Tuscany together and learn the craft from the true professionals.

He truly suspected that the _only_ bad thing about being at home so much was Karen's stubborn ginger tom- Pepper. The fattest, most spoiled moggy he'd ever seen in his whole life and the bane of his existence. She'd had him for thirteen years and he'd seemed to dislike Bill even _before_ they'd got married- violently hissing at him when he'd arrived to pick up Karen for their first date and even going so far as to claw his Kenneth Cole trousers. Now that they were actually living together for the first time in their marriage and he wasn't the only male in the house, he took malicious delight in stealing Bill's fireside chair, curling up beside Karen so _he_ couldn't get into bed beside her, and on _particularly_ venomous occasions- shredding the sports section of the Washington Post. Bill detested that damn cat, but he meant the world to Karen, and if putting up with a psychotic cat was the _worst_ problem he had, then he considered himself to be a very lucky man.

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Today, a bright and sunny Sunday in late October proved to be no different than usual- Karen was dozing when his alarm clock woke him, her blonde hair splayed out over the pillow, mouth open wide and occasionally emitting a little snore. She could sleep through a thunderstorm, he always reflected.

He kissed her forehead fondly as he pulled on his running clothes and quietly slipped into his well-worn sneakers and headed north on 26th Street. Traffic was a little heavier than usual owing to the Marine Corps Marathon taking place later that day, so he diverted his usual planned route over the Roosevelt Memorial Bridge and headed into Windy Run Park, the gentle breeze from the nearby Potomac stirring the greying hair at his temples.

"Getting too damn old for this," he muttered to himself after a while, the sweat shining on his forehead and running in cold rivulets down his neck. After a couple of brisk laps of the park, he was tired and headed back, halting at the 7-11. A wry smile tugged at his lips as he picked up his Washington Post and then studied the garish tabloids alongside it, wondering which front page story would pique Karen's interest most: "Britney turns her baby blue" or "Miley Cyrus in rehab scandal?" He eventually opted for both- not wanting her to miss out on either scoop. He didn't have a clue who either of them actually _were_, but he imagined he'd be debriefed soon- Karen was usually very vocal on celebrity scandals. She teasingly maintained that it kept him young.

The bakery was bustling as always- he could smell the tempting aroma of gingerbread and chocolate chip cookies half a block away, enough to make his mouth water. The yellow and white striped awning above the door was the same welcoming colour as the cluster of tables outside, already occupied by the same folks he saw sitting there every Sunday morning, reading the papers and sipping cappuccinos and espressos, the strong scent assailing his nostrils. No doubt about it- this place was pretty popular with the locals. It was little wonder Karen was so attached to it, he thought, as he peered into the window at the fluffy iced carrot cakes and mini Viennese whirls in their little glass cases- even for someone who _wasn't_ a sugar fiend like his wife, those things looked pretty tempting.

The sales girl greeted him with her usual friendly smile, already had his croissants ready, which he liked. Nice to be remembered. "They just came out of the oven," she reported cheerily as she slid them into the bag for him, "what else can I get you, Mr Buchanan?"

His eyes slid over the freshly baked poppy seed baguettes, glazed doughnuts and blueberry muffins as he contemplated. "An apple Danish," he decided, then promptly changed his mind, "actually.. no, you'd better make that a no-sugar cherry and sultana bagel," he smiled a little guiltily. "I'm watching my figure."

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Karen roused sleepily as the scent of sugar and pastry was wafted alluringly under her nose. "Mmm… you went to the bakery, already?" she questioned, sitting up and yawning. "What time is it?"

"Almost nine thirty," Bill replied as he sat beside her on the bed and handed her the plate with two hot buttered croissants and strawberry jam. She smiled as he nuzzled her neck fondly.

"What did _you_ get?" she countered, noticing his eyes firmly fixed on her plate and the melted butter already pooling there. _Nope. Not this week buster. Nuh uh._

"Um, a bagel," he gestured to his own plate looking a little downcast, with its delicious (but lonely-looking) undressed bagel. He'd forgone the cream cheese and any pretence of butter. It usually got her feeling sorry for him.

Karen arched a brow, a smile creeping over her lips at the familiar pretext this conversation was slowly taking; "oh, I see."

"_What _do you see?" he countered, trying to hide a smile of his own.

"You're going to eat _your_ miserable looking diet bagel and say you're _still _hungry," Karen pointed out, exasperated, "and wind up eating the rest of _my_ croissant! Bill… we go through this little charade every week. When are you going to admit that you're just as addicted to croissants on a Sunday morning as I am?"

"I am _not_," he stated firmly.

"Mmm, in that case you won't mind if I eat these two all by _myself _then…" Karen took an exaggeratedly large first bite, sending flaky pastry everywhere, then licked her lips appreciatively, "mmmm, _soooo_ good," she praised, then shrieked in surprise as Bill pinned her back against the pillows, kissing her soundly. He could taste the remnants of sugar still clinging to her warm lips.

"I am not," he began patiently, forty minutes later when they lay on the crumb-covered sheets, dishevelled, worn-out and the breakfast long-forgotten, "addicted to croissants on a Sunday morning. I'm just addicted to watching _you _eat them."

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**A/N:** Yay? Nay?


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